Guilt of Choice
by Hekate1308
Summary: She knew him to be alive, and she couldn't have been happier, even if she'd only replaced the guilt of his death with the guilt of hiding his survival from his brother. Anthea, Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: Another what-if scenario that – well, that just appeared out of nowhere. So I had to write it.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

As the PA of the British Government, she'd seen and done many things she wasn't proud of; things she still wished she hadn't done, but had been necessary in the long run to keep the country safe.

She'd never before lied to him, however. She had never before lied to Mycroft Holmes.

Not only because she would have lost her job if she did, but because it was impossible,

Normally. Or, rather, before. Before everything changed.

Ever since he'd lost his brother though, he'd become slightly less – observant. Which still made him more observant than any other man in Britain, but allowed her to –

To do what, that was the question.

For a year, she'd mourned Sherlock Holmes in her own way. For a year, she'd watched John Watson and Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade to make sure no harm would befall them. For a year she had made sure that Mycroft Holmes went to all his meetings, knew everything, was as efficient as he'd been before his brother's suicide. There had even been a few times where she'd sent him home after realizing he hadn't slept or eaten for a week. She'd guessed soon enough that this was his way of punishing himself, for letting his brother jump to his death without interfering, for making a deal with Moriarty in the first place.

She understood why he'd done it, had even been with him when he made the decision. Mycroft Holmes was the British Government, incredibly protective of his country and his citizens; he hadn't allowed sentiment to cloud his judgement, had believed he could protect his brother.

He had been wrong.

She'd always trusted Mycroft Holmes, even when she didn't agree with his choices (not that she'd ever tell him) and she still did. But he was grieving, and he felt guilty, and yet insisted on working just as much as ever.

At least he'd allowed her to take responsibility, to make him go home, which was more than she could have asked for.

And yet, during this whole year, when she'd done nothing but look after everyone who mourned for Sherlock Holmes –

She'd been grieving in her own way.

She couldn't help it. She'd watched over him ever since she had been twenty-four – he'd been twenty-seven and still taking drugs – and somehow, she felt like she'd known him more intimately than most, simply through the hours and hours of video footage she'd had to go through.

She had come to know his mannerisms, his favourite hide-outs, his suppliers, and also the little things, like the way he held his head when he went into his mind palace or the look he got when he'd just figured something out before anyone else. And, even though she hadn't meant to, wasn't supposed to, she had grown to care for him.

You couldn't be responsible for someone without learning to care about them in the process.

And then he jumped of a building and for once she hadn't been there to watch over him, and for some illogical reason she felt it was all her fault when it really wasn't and his brother needed her more than ever.

She knew her boss; knew him more than anyone else, except for the man they had buried together. So she, despite her job being already demanding enough, took care of him. She made sure he didn't have too much work – a difficult, considering Mycroft Holmes lived for his work. She made equally sure that he had some time off now and then – she suspected he knew why she managed his time table in a way that allowed him to get home at a reasonable time, but he never said anything. Just as he never said anything when a snack would magically appear on his desk.

It was complicated enough keeping the British Government alive, looking after Sherlock's friends, dealing with her own grief and juggling her job at the same time -

And then everything got even more complicated.

Because on the first anniversary of Sherlock's death (of course; all Holmes had a flair for the dramatic) she got a text.

It wasn't long. But it changed everything.

_Need information on the Garanza Cartell operating in Mexico._

They weren't many people who knew the number of her blackberry, and even fewer who would send such a text.

Only two, to be precise.

And one of these two certainly hadn't sent her anything because he was working in the next room and would just have called her over if he wanted anything.

That left one candidate.

Sherlock Holmes had sent this text.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

Her joy was short-lived when she realized something.

He wasn't asking his brother for help, but her.

He knew. He knew that Mycroft had betrayed him, and he apparently hadn't forgiven him. She wouldn't have expected him to. But it made a relationship that had always been difficult so much more so.

Her first instinct was to tell Mycroft that his brother was alive. Then she realized –

If Sherlock found out she'd told the British Government he was alive (and he would, she couldn't doubt it for a second) he might never text her again. He would disappear, and all the proof they'd have that he had never really died would be a text from a burn phone anyone could have sent. After all, what did it prove that the text had been sent to a number no one knew? Absolutely nothing.

Maybe she was over-thinking this. Maybe he had sent Mycroft the same text. Maybe she didn't need to worry at all.

She replied.

_Does he know?_

The answer came quickly.

_No. And he won't._

Before she could type a word, another text came.

_And you are not to tell him, either. I just need information, and he doesn't always tell me what I need to know, as I am sure you remember._

She had been working for Mycroft Holmes long enough to know when she was being manipulated. Of course Sherlock would know she was feeling guilty herself.

And it was working.

Surely she could help him just as well as Mycroft; he was only asking for information, after all, and she could provide that just as easily –

She was looking for excuses to hide his brother's survival from her boss. This was not good, definitely not good. She should, in fact, already be standing in his office; she should –

Another text.

_Please._

She hadn't realized how well Sherlock had come to know her. He had her now.

In the end, it was simply a question of which choice would give her less of a bad conscience. And Sherlock had lost more on the fateful day than Mycroft had. He was out there, hunting down Moriarty's web (of course she knew the cartel he'd asked about was part of it; of course she knew everything about it), and God knew how long it would take.

It was clear why he was doing it; she could only think of one reason.

He wouldn't do all of this only to ensure his safety. He had survived a cocaine addiction, various dangerous situations and sleep deprivation as well as malnourishment. He wouldn't have to do it for himself. Sherlock Holmes, the man who claimed he had no heart and still sent her texts when he hadn't seen Mycroft for some time – never a question if he was alright, but always something like "Has he put on weight again?" or "I suppose I have once again displeased the British Government", just something so she would answer and he'd stop worrying – he was doing this for his friends. It was the only explanation.

And he was doing it all alone.

She admitted to herself that she didn't want to tell her boss against Sherlock's wishes and sent him the information.

She didn't Sherlock owe any loyalty; she certainly had never worked for him; and yet, in this situation, when she had to chose which Holmes brother to betray –

Sherlock was alone and fighting for his friends. Yes, he had been reckless, which certainly hadn't helped in his fight with Moriarty.

But Mycroft had made the decision to endanger his brother, whereas Sherlock had sent John Watson away.

She would rather betray a boss than someone who, despite his protestations to the contrary, had turned out to be a hero all along.

So she sent him the information, and every other information he demanded during the next two years.

Just that she'd chosen to keep his secret didn't mean that she didn't feel bad about lying to Mycroft, though, especially when she realized just how deep his grief went.

There were moments when he got lost in his thoughts and she saw it in his eyes. There were moments where he looked at two boys running side by side on a street and whatever he'd wanted to say died on his lips. There were days where she couldn't find the newspapers only to discover them in the bin because their headlines proclaimed Sherlock Holmes a fraud once again.

She could have made him feel better, but Sherlock had asked her (in his fashion) to keep his secret and she felt like she owed him a favour.

Because she had known all about Mycroft's decision, but, due to the loyalty and trust she had now chosen to betray, she hadn't told Sherlock. Or John. She could have. And all of this would never have happened.

Lying to her boss was her own punishment.

And she didn't doubt that, as soon as Mycroft knew his brother was alive, he would find him and Sherlock would know that she had betrayed his confidence – and it would lead to him disappearing again, this time without any trace. And she couldn't deny that she lived for his texts now, simply because the demands for information – he never asked for money or another identity, apparently he could provide these for himself – were the one thing that told her that he was still out there, still doing well enough to text. And that he'd been successful in bringing down the next part of the web. He never wrote anything personal (not that she could expect him to, the only connection they'd ever had was his brother) or signed (it was too dangerous; what if anyone read the text or one of their phones was stolen?) but it was enough.

Meanwhile, Anthea couldn't help but worry about the fact that Mycroft had yet to notice.

Before he would have realized that she was hiding something. Then, again, maybe the thought just didn't cross his mind because he trusted her and he believed Sherlock to be dead.

She knew him to be alive, and she couldn't have been happier, even if she'd only replaced the guilt of his death with the guilt of hiding his survival from his brother. She preferred this guilt; it would end one day. Or at least lessen once Mycroft knew. She didn't think it would ever leave her, not completely; but at least Sherlock would be alive.

For these two years, she worked harder than she ever had before. Arranging everything, looking after everything, taking care of everything –

Well, everything that wasn't done by Mycroft Holmes, of course. He was working just as much as ever – and now, three years after Sherlock's disappearance, the days were she could order him to go home where long gone.

Anthea was growing restless. She knew how big Moriarty's web had been – they knew about people like the consulting criminal, it was just what they did – but somehow, she couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock should be done soon.

He was.

And, in typical Sherlock Holmes fashion, he simply sent her a text that once again made her life more complicated.

_Am at the Diogenes Club with Mycroft._

She didn't know what to feel or think, and this was not a feeling she liked. Then, another text.

_He knows nothing. And he won't.  
Thank you._

And, just like that, she knew that the lies, the guilt, the sleepless nights because it had been months since his last text, had been worth it.

Even if she still felt a pang of guilt the next morning when Mycroft informed her in his usual court but polite manner that his brother was alive and she saw the happiness in his eyes.

She would gladly accept it if it meant that London would not have to live without Sherlock Holmes again.

**Author's note: Just something I thought about and decided it could be interesting.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


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